


head in the clouds (but my gravity's centered)

by orphan_account



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Childhood Trauma, F/M, Falling In Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21874648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Be safe, missy. Wouldn't want you to hurt more than you already are hurting."Or, in which you are a troubled teenager and Eggsy is an intrigued Kingsman who wants to help you reform.
Relationships: Gary "Eggsy" Unwin/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	head in the clouds (but my gravity's centered)

**Author's Note:**

> general warnings for underage drinking/smoking and implied/referenced child abuse/neglect and age gaps. to be added as time passes. stay safe, loves.
> 
> fic's title and chapter titles are from sweater weather by the neighbourhood. i consider it this fic's theme song, even if "daddy issues" would've fit better--imo, daddy issues feels too direct with what i intend to portray.
> 
> i hope you all enjoy.

"Goddamned thing still better have some fuel left in it," you grumbled. You tried once more to ignite your lighter against your cigarette, but to no avail, it simply let out a disappointing hiss.

You scowled in irritation. Oh, great. Just when you desperately wanted to smoke—even just for a minute or two—your lighter had to run out of fluid. It's not like you could buy a new one either: who the fuck would sell a lighter to a teenager at two in the morning without expecting some juvenile delinquency to follow?

Of course, you weren't a juvenile delinquent (yet), just some common, troubled girl with too many issues to even become a love interest for some boring man in a novel. The typical backstory: broken home, money issues, attitude problems. So, yes, essentially your mother did not give a shit where you were — even if you were in a grimy alleyway, bullet in your head.

You gave up trying to get her to love you a long time ago—and you gave up trying to be what everyone wanted you to be, as well.

So that leads you to one of your normal, average days: loitering around at night, smoking cigarettes and waiting for your misery to end by some ill-fated accident that everyone would be happy with. It's just that you can't exactly complete part two when your lighter is out of fluid and it felt like years from the last time you smoked.

You're tempted to throw the thing on the road beneath you and stomp it with your sneakers. In fact, you were already raising your arm—but a masculine voice pierced through the stagnant silence of night, jarring.

"You look a little too young to be out at these hours, miss."

Blinking slowly in realization, you let your hand drop as you turned your head—if they were an old man trying to flirt, you'd beat the shit out of him, if they were a cop, then… you don't want to think about how your mom wouldn't even care to bail you out.

Instead of showing fear, you put on your best scowl—but the man doesn't look old, nor does he look like a cop: he's in a crisp, black suit and has glasses on, almost straight out of a movie or book. "What's your excuse?" he asked, lips pursing together in a way that made you _really_ want to punch him.

"First, I'm not young; second, it's none of your business," you spat, hiding your cigarette in a balled-up fist.

As you crossed your arms, you discreetly slid your lighter into the sleeve of your hoodie. If anything happened, you could frame the man for attempted sexual assault if he tried to take your hoodie off of you to find the lighter. "In fact, what are _you_ doing here, dressed to to kill, as if you were attending a gala?" you shot back, unrelenting.

The man grinned, a hand pushing up his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Lying is a bad offense, you know," he said. "What I do is classified, but what you're doing is illegal."

Before you could interrupt him, he continued to speak. "Smoking underage, all alone at two in the morning, no older than eighteen, must've been doing this—and more—for a very long time, correct?" The cheekiness was obvious in his tone, something that made you even more irritated at him.

You rolled your eyes. "So?" You huffed haughtily, putting on your best sardonic smile to match his smug grin. Judging from his raised brow, it must've worked. "What's it to you, old man? You wanna know my backstory, and then you'll try to seduce me?"

"Old man?" the man echoed wonderingly, in shock. "I'll have you know I'm only twenty-three, miss. Not an old man." He splayed a hand over his chest, mock-gasp on his really, _really_ handsome face. Fuck. "And you?"

For some reason, there's a sense of familiarity in your heart when he redirected the question to you: it churned in your stomach, and made you feel weird—until the realization hit that the reason why you feel revolted yet amazed by those two words is all because no one's ever bothered to ask you anything, or know you for all your life.

Your throat feels too tight to form words.

"You already know," you said instead, but your voice sounded too brittle, too uneven to even your own ears. Could he hear it too? The thrum of your heartbeat, faster, faster?

The man rolled his eyes, hand dropping from his chest. "Let me escort you home," he offered, hands slipping into the pockets of his pants. Your eyes lingered for a little too long at his legs.

You thought of your shabby hour in the shadiest street, of your mother's perpetual disgust each time you entered, of the disgusting, disgusting feeling of knowing that this wasn't normal. 

Yeah. There was no way you were going to let this man escort you home and let him see how much of a fuck up you were.

"No thanks," you mumbled and turned away to avoid his gaze. Could he see your emotions, clear as day? "I'll just go home by myself; I'm not _that_ young."

There's silence that follows your words. Each second is like a ticking time bomb to you—you want to cry, scream, because why is he making you feel so fucking weird about something you've never cared about ever since you were a kid?

But, after a beat, you hear him speak, softly, tenderly: "Be safe, missy. Wouldn't want you to hurt more than you already are hurting."

Without hesitation, you walked off as quick as you could, dropping your cigarette somewhere as you blinked back tears. Your chest felt too tight, too twisted to properly breathe.

 _One, two, three_ , you counted in your head as you stumbled on the sidewalk. Everything seemed to defocus: the bright yellow of the street lamps, the moonlight against windows, the dirty white of your motheaten sneakers. 

His words repeat in your head, like a mantra, a remembrance. _Be safe, missy. Wouldn't want you to hurt more than you already are hurting._ You don't remember the last time anyone's worried about you—so why would someone… someone who sounded so genuine, care now?

It doesn't take you long to straggle to your house. You've memorized the streets, the homes every time you left the house.

And so, you tentatively insert your copy of house keys and open the door with as much caution as one would have handling a newborn child. The fear settles in your gut, swirling in with every other emotion you've felt as your eyes warily scan the living room and kitchen.

Your eyes settle on the figure on the couch, sprawled out and unconscious. Good. Nothing's changed.

The various family photos on the way to your room don't help the icky feeling. Mom, dad, you: to reiterate, a stranger, a nobody, and a life-ruiner. You push them down, farther than they've ever been before, and enter your room.

You find yourself staring at your appearance in the mirror across the door: your sunken eyes, frown, and the repulsive being that you desperately wish you were. The man's words echo in your mind, but your mind repeats something else: you don't deserve it, he's not actually nice, he's just faking being kind to take advantage of a fucked up teenager—

You take a deep breath, close your eyes.

In the end, it's still you in the mirror, no matter if you can't see yourself in it.


End file.
